If the Truth Be Known
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #19 Spock's self-confidence is shaken when a psyche evaluation leaves him grounded from the Enterprise, but Lauren Fielding refuses to give up on him.
1. Chapter 1

One by one the senior officers came onto the bridge. Tense and subdued, they took up their posts and ran the instrument checks that were standard procedure when coming on duty. From his central command chair Captain James T. Kirk watched, his lips tightened into a thin line. Today he took none of his usual satisfaction in the well-oiled workings of ship and crew. This was no ordinary mission. He carried out his orders under protest and cared little who saw his displeasure.

With a hiss the lift doors opened again. Mister Spock made an unhurried entry and took over the science station. The bridge crew was complete. Everyone had been briefed. They were patrolling an area of Space dangerously close to the Klingon Empire. Two weeks earlier a Federation science vessel had disappeared in this same region, leaving nothing but an abrupt distress signal. The scenario was suspiciously like that of the Grissom tragedy at Genesis. Kirk could not get over the feeling that he was walking into a trap—a trap set for him by Starfleet brass.

Punching the amber button under his fingertips, he said, "Condition yellow, all decks."

The command initiated a mild burst of activity. Reports of precautionary measures streamed through the communication board. "All stations at yellow alert," Uhura confirmed.

Kirk reached for his console's intercom. "Engineering. Status report, Mister Scott."

"Everthin's fine down here, Captain," came the reply. "She's purrin' like a well-fed kitten."

Kirk barely concealed a smile. Leave it to Scotty to carry on as if nothing were out of the ordinary. "Very good, Mister Scott."

Kirk settled back in his chair. "Helmsman, initiate standard search pattern. If the Cousteau's anywhere near, we'll find her."

Uhura touched her ear receptor and looked up. "Captain, I'm picking up some unusual bursts of static…" Kirk swiveled and watched the communications officer make a rapid series of adjustments, then shrug. "It's gone," she said.

Kirk turned his attention on his first officer. Spock was concentrating on long-range scanners and sensors. An enemy approach, a disabled ship, and even infinitesimal traces of wreckage or transit—he would check for them all. The safety of the new Enterprise, the success of their mission, could well depend on the Vulcan's alertness. Kirk kept to himself any nagging doubts as to Spock's ability to handle the job.

"Captain!" Spock's dark head bend over his instruments. "Two Klingon cruisers uncloaking. Range 50,000 meters and closing fast."

Kirk experienced a surge of adrenaline. "Initiate evasive maneuvers! Uhura, broadcast our peaceful intent on all frequencies. Let them know we're on a rescue mission, not looking for a fight."

"Visual contact," Sulu said.

The disquieting shapes of Klingon battle cruisers took form on the screen.

"Have they acknowledged?" Kirk asked Uhura.

She shook her head. "No, Captain."

"They are arming weapons," Spock warned.

"Condition red!" Kirk slapped the appropriate button on his console. "Get those shields up!"

The klaxon sounded general quarters, sending the Enterprise to full combat readiness. Preparations were still underway when Spock issued a warning and a torpedo blast rocked the bridge.

"Damn," Kirk swore, holding tight to his chair. "Open a channel to those ships, Uhura!"

Uhura's fingers furiously worked the connections on her board. She frowned. "Captain, they're not responding."

"Shields at eighty percent," Spock reported.

Chekov said, "Veapons armed and ready."

"Incoming torpedoes!" Spock's voice rang out.

The second attack caught the Enterprise amidships, violently wrenching it to one side. Everyone fought to maintain his or her balance as the ship slowly righted under Sulu's expert handing. Damage reports flooded in. This time there were casualties.

"Lock on phasers!" Kirk ordered. "Fire on command!"

Chekov rapidly set the weapons. "Phasers ready, Keptin."

"Fire!" Kirk watched grimly as the volley found its mark on the enemy ships.

The intercom sounded. "Captain!" called Scott in a breathless voice. "We're loosin' power. That last strike caused more damage than we—" Static washed out the engineer's urgent report.

Kirk imagined a hellish scene below decks and jabbed the communication button. "Dammit, Scotty, hold it together down there!"

Scott's muttered reply came clear. "Aye, sir, with maybe some chewin' gum and bailin' wire…"

The Klingon warships loomed closer. Spock consulted his instruments. "Shields at fifteen percent. They cannot hold long against these assaults. Captain, I strongly advise we—"

"Lock phasers on both ships, " Kirk cut in. "Let's hope Scotty's on the job."

"Phasers locked." Chekov's hand hovered over the weapons console.

"Banks one and two," Kirk ordered, "fire in sequence."

Chekov's hand dropped. Phaser blasts streaked toward the oncoming cruisers. The Klingons attacked simultaneously, scoring direct hits on the Enterprise. The ship reeled under the massive assault. Sparks cascaded from control panels. Lights flickered and dimmed.

"Auxilliary power!" Spock shouted above the chaos. Then, "Shields out."

Scott's discouraged voice sounded from Engineering. "That's about it, Captain. We've been knocked royal. Warp drive, weapon systems…gone. All gone. Barely enough left for life support an' impulse power…"

A chilling silence descended over the smoky bridge. Only Uhura spoke, fielding the disheartening glut of damage reports from every deck. With a sick feeling Kirk watched the Klingon ships swing around. He was barely aware of Spock leaving his post, coming up behind him. He felt the Vulcan sink his lean fingers into the upholstery at his back. "Spock," he said quietly, "you were suggesting…?"

"Incoming!" cried Chekov.

Kirk braced himself, but an overload surged from the control arms of his chair. A strange, sharp sensation gripped his chest. His teeth clenched. _Here it comes,_ he thought, sliding limply to the deck.

Spock stood over the fallen captain. There was a horrible stillness beneath Kirk's eyelids. Red blood seeped from his mouth, forging a sticky trail down the side of his face.

"Sickbay!" Uhura shouted into her console. "Captain Kirk's been injured!"

The urgency in her voice set Spock in motion. Dropping to his knees beside Kirk, he opened the captain's jacket and checked for a neck pulse and respiration. The captain was alive. _Of course Jim was alive._ He needed to calm himself. He had to think clearly. He was now in command.

"Sir," said Chekov. "Mister Spock, let me…"

With an effort Spock rose and stepped away from Kirk's body. Chekov took his place. Sulu turned around, looked at him, and said, "Your orders, Mister Spock."

Spock suppressed a stirring of panic. Moving to the science station, he signaled Engineering. "Mister Scott, we need warp drive. What is your status?"

The chief engineer spoke wearily. "It's nae good, Mister Spock. I havna even assessed all the damage. To attempt warp drive could crack a pod wide open, or shatter the dilithium crystals. That is, if I could even start the engines. The main relays—"

Spock interrupted the cheerless litany. "Scott, our situation is critical. Shut down life support to all nonessential areas of the ship. Divert all remaining power to warp drive. Perform one of your feats of engineering genius."

"Aye, sir…" Scott did not sound hopeful.

Spock turned his attention to Uhura. "Commander, if you can establish communication…"

"I'm trying!" she answered, obviously frustrated.

The lift doors burst open. Doctor McCoy rushed to Kirk's side and pulled a diagnostic scanner from his medical kit. "Klingon bastards," he muttered.

Spock inwardly agreed. He did not need his instruments to tell him that the warships were once again within firing range. The Klingons were circling the Enterprise like bloodthirsty predators.

"Alright." Scott's voice broke through the static on the intercom. "Ye've got yer warp power, Mister Spock. Ah've rigged somethin' up, but ah canna promise she'll hold for long…"

Spock drew in a deep breath, went to the command chair, and sat down. "Engage warp drive, Mister Sulu."

The Enterprise lurched forward. On the screen, the stars grew shivery and elongated into a dizzying view of warpspace. The computer attempted to impose order on the construct, and failed. It, too, was malfunctioning.

"Warp one," Sulu said, "warp two…warp three…"

An intermittent shudder spoke of serious engine imbalance. Spock dug his fingers into the arms of his chair and willed the ship—and his nerves—to steady.

"Warp four," Sulu counted. "Warp five…"

A violent explosion rocked the Enterprise. Abruptly the ship skewed and fell out of warp. Seared bits of wreckage floated across the screen as Sulu fought to regain helm control.

Spock punched the command console intercom. "Mister Scott! Mister Scott, acknowledge!" Silence answered. He had forgotten that Kirk's console was damaged.

At Communications, Uhura leaned forward and fingered her ear receptor. "Starboard pod destroyed," she said in a shaken voice. "Main engineering hull breached."

"Scotty," breathed McCoy. "Oh my God…"

Numbly Spock met the doctor's eyes. McCoy's look seemed accusing. Against his will, Spock's gaze lowered to the injured captain. The blood on Kirk's face had dried. He almost appeared dead. _But his is not dead,_ Spock told himself. _The ship is undamaged. There are no Klingons. This is only an illusion._

"Ships sighted!" Sulu called. "Klingons at 10,000 meters." Stiffening, he peered at his instruments. "Unauthorized transporter activity. Multiple boarding parties arriving." He turned around, awaiting Spock's next command. At the jarring sound of the intruder alert, all eyes settled on the silent, unmoving Vulcan.

"Spock!" McCoy hissed in a stage whisper. "Dammit, man!"

Kirk cracked his eyes open. The pain in them was so intense that Spock swiveled his chair away. Mind racing, he thought, _it is already too late. Klingons are aboard. They are working their way to the bridge._ There arose a sharp, paralyzing fear of falling into Klingon hands again. And not only him, this time. _Jim…McCoy…the entire crew subject to torture and degradation…_

"Mister Spock," Sulu said. "Sir, your orders…"

A tight feeling in Spock's chest made it difficult to breathe. He could not think clearly. He could not perform even the simplest functions. It was over. _Finished._ As if of its own accord, his hand fumbled for the perscan device at his beltline. His fingers closed around it and tightened convulsively. He felt the delicate monitor crush in his grip.

The intruder alert fell silent. With a sharp hiss the turbolift doors opened, flooding the bridge with light. Ventilation fans kicked in. Admiral Morrow strode onto the simulator, his dark face somber.

Kirk blinked, then rolled to his feet scratching at the crust of stage blood on his cheek. "Admiral—" he began with anger in his voice.

"Later, Jim." Morrow's brooding eyes scanned the wreckage of the bridge and finally came to rest on Spock. The Vulcan stood. Morrow said, "Captain, you will come with me."

oooo

Kirk paced the plush anteroom outside Morrows office. With each step the thick blue carpeting sucked at his boots like quicksand. "I _knew_ it!" he fumed. "I just _knew_ it was all about Spock! Damn! Forty-five minutes! What the hell's going on in there?"

McCoy leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Calm down, Jim. Remember your place."

Kirk spun around and faced him. "My _place?"_

"You're not an admiral anymore."

"I _know_ what I am," Kirk said hotly. "And I know Spock. He deserves better than this."

"He certainly does," drawled McCoy. "First they pat us on the back and give us a starship, then they treat us like a bunch of raw cadets. But Jim—" he leaned forward, "shoot off your mouth and you're liable to get slapped down—hard."

Kirk glared at his outspoken friend. Yes, they had given him a starship—Starfleet's Revenge might be a better name for it than Enterprise. The ship was a pile of junk, an embarrassment. But all its malfunctions were as nothing compared to the rank humiliation of today's training session. If Command was trying to provoke him, it was certainly doing a splendid job.

The inner door opened. A boyish yeoman stuck his head into the anteroom. "Admiral Morrow will see you now, Captain."

Kirk went inside and was ushered through another doorway, into Morrow's retreat. The office had been redecorated since the last time Kirk was here. More blue. Endless shades of blue, right down to the picture windows full of brilliant blue sky. It provided a sharp contrast to Morrow's dark presence behind the desk. _Where the hell had Spock gone?_ A frosty-looking brunette in commander's insignia sat in one of two desk-side chairs.

"Harry," Kirk said, hoping to set a casual tone for the meeting. He was determined not to lose his temper.

Morrow motioned toward the empty seat. "Sit down, Jim." Kirk obediently lowered himself into the chair.

"Captain Kirk," Morrow said by way of introduction, "this is Doctor Sayda Stackhouse, Chief of Psychiatry at Starfleet Medical Center."

Kirk stiffened. He had heard of "S.S." Stackhouse. Everyone had. A referral to her psychiatric couch could mean the end of your career. He offered a restrained greeting and Stackhouse coolly returned the courtesy.

"There's no sense drawing this out," Morrow said. "Jim, I can understand why you objected to today's test. It's never been Starfleet's policy to haul seasoned officers through the simulator. Since it was the Medical Department that devised this unusual approach, I'll let Doctor Stackhouse explain."

Kirk gripped the arms of his chair as Stackhouse eyed him. She said, "Due to the…shall we say… _unique_ circumstances surrounding Captain Spock's return to Starfleet, he was examined in depth by a team of doctors at the medical center."

Kirk nodded. "I know. Doctor McCoy said he was as healthy as a horse."

"Physically, yes. Captain, information of this nature is normally confidential, but you've selected Spock as your first officer and that makes him a member of your crew. Therefore, you have a legal right to know. Captain Spock's psyche exams were inconsistent and…troubling."

Kirk's stomach flipped. "Troubling. In what way?'

"He exhibited unacceptable levels of fear and aggression when exposed to xenophobic stimuli."

"Klingons," Morrow clarified. "A marked aversion to Klingons."

"My God," Kirk breathed. Spock's experience of Klingons on the Genesis planet was bad enough, but add to that his subsequent captivity. It was no wonder Spock felt hostile after everything Torlath did to him and his daughter. However, Starfleet knew nothing of that later trauma. Even if they were told, would it make any difference? "Harry—I don't like them, either. They murdered my son. Spock was there. He saw it happen."

"Jim, of course," Morrow said kindly. "But maybe I didn't make it clear. Captain Spock's reaction goes far beyond any simple dislike. It has been diagnosed as an "obsessive, debilitating phobia".

Kirk stared at him in stunned silence.

After a moment, Stackhouse spoke. "The purpose of the simulation was to monitor Spock's reactions in a realistic but controlled setting. He was fully aware that he was being tested. We had his consent."

"And if he hadn't consented?"

Morrow had the grace to look uncomfortable. "He would have lost his flight clearance."

Kirk had no time to react before Stackhouse added, "Captain Spock assured me that he was quite capable of controlling his responses. Unfortunately, destroying his perscan monitor voided the conditions of the test. Not that he would have passed, anyway. You witnessed his performance. I'm afraid the data we accumulated only served to reinforce my diagnosis."

"Jim, I'm sorry," Morrow said.

The admiral's tone infuriated Kirk. He didn't want Harry's sympathy, he wanted answers—he wanted action. "How long until Spock can be reinstated?"

"It depends," Stackhouse said with clinical detachment. "So far he has refused psychiatric treatment. Unless he starts to cooperate…"

"But he's _Vulcan!"_ Kirk flared. "Can't you find him a Vulcan healer?"

" _Half_ Vulcan," corrected the doctor. "Even so, I _have_ offered to enlist the aid of a healer. Spock refused. I don't know why. He understands the nature of his affliction. He knows there's help available. It's up to him whether or not he chooses to accept it."

Kirk bit back a sharp response. McCoy was right. No use shooting off his mouth. Deep down he had feared this day was coming. Spock had not been himself since returning from the grave. Yet through it all Kirk had kept up the pressure, never letting Spock forget the life that had once been his, the home still awaiting him in Starfleet.

"I know what Spock means to you," Morrow said. "Perhaps…if you talk to him."

Kirk nodded and stood up. His body felt stiff, as if he had been sitting a long while. As if he were getting old. "Thank you for your time," he said, and walked out of the office.

oooo

In his faculty apartment Spock dropped down on his bed and breathing hard, stared at the ceiling. One by one he pulled off his boots and tossed them to the floor. Opening his uniform jacket, he let the air penetrate the sweat-dampened shirt underneath. He felt hot, burning hot.

A Vulcan who could not control his emotions was a disgrace to himself and his entire clan. The fact that he was also part human did nothing to alleviate the sense of shame. Even a full-bloodied human could have performed better than he did today. And it had only been a simulation—a _sham._ What might have happened if he were thrown into a real encounter with Klingons? With a sigh Spock closed his eyes and attempted to quiet his mind. The violence of his own thoughts sickened him. It was Klingons who had wrought this change— _Torlath, that filthy lying pekh, and his murdering son Kruge…_

With an effort he stopped the train of thought. These days he was as full of anger as his daughter on Vulcan, and nearly as undisciplined. T'Beth had not spoken to him since the council at ShiKahr confined her as punishment for vandalism. She blamed him because he had encouraged her to confess. In truth, he had not known how severe a penalty the elders would exact. He wanted T'Beth off Vulcan, but now there was the matter of her parole as well as his own situation to deal with.

There was a rapping sound. Spock opened his eyes and listened. The knock came again. He knew of only one person who did not use the doorchime, and taking note of the hour, he was certain of the visitor's identity. After a moment's indecision, he leaned over and spoke through the bedside intercom. "Come in, Doctor. I'll be with you directly."

He was committed now. He took his time putting on his boots and making himself outwardly presentable. The inner man was more difficult to prepare. Still wrestling dark emotions, he left the privacy of his bedroom. He found Doctor Fielding standing at a window. The soft light of midday shone on her golden hair. Turning toward him she smiled, and her blue eyes touched Spock with heart-rending warmth.

 _She does not yet know,_ he realized and found himself wishing against all logic that they would stay locked in this one moment forever, and she would never learn of his failure. But inevitably the moment passed. Lauren's smile faded into a look of mild concern. She was a very perceptive woman.

Before she could say anything, Spock went to the computer and sat down. Out of habit he checked first for any message from his daughter. There was none. He called up his current work display and said, "Doctor, so far I have had little success in reconstructing the project's third phase. My memory is uncertain. However, I am sure this formula is accurate."

Lauren came over. Her left hand touched the back of his chair as she leaned forward, concentrating on the screen. A pleasing scent of gardenias enveloped him. "Yes," she said excitedly, "that's it! I remember now."

Spock could have told her that her mind contained every detail of the lost data, that had he been willing he could retrieve it in a series of melds. Instead, he directed the computer to integrate the recovered formula with the slowly growing body of research.

"It fits perfectly," she said with satisfaction. "A few more like that and we'll really be back in business."

Spock's eyebrow quirked in puzzlement and he looked up at her. "Back in business?"

She smiled. "A figure of speech. It means…our project will be up and running."

"Oh." Yet another figure of speech, but one that he understood well enough. He thought for a moment. "But Doctor, it is _your_ project, not ours."

Lauren straightened. "From the very beginning you were a part of it. An essential part."

"I was merely your patient," Spock said. "It was you who made the study of my illness, and you who cured me. It was you alone who went on to seek a similar cure for full-blooded Vulcans."

"Wait a minute. You helped."

"A few minor suggestions."

"I'd hardly call them that," Lauren said. "I opened the whole project to you. And now, if it weren't for your input—" She stopped, drew a deep breath. Her voice grew very persuasive. "Spock, if it weren't for you, there would be no plakir-fee project. I insist that you share fully in the credit."

Spock turned aside. Struggling with himself, he arose and walked over to a window.

"It's only logical," she said from across the room.

 _Logical?_ Gazing upon the academy green, he shook his head. This project had very little to do with logic. However interesting and useful the medical research, it was only an excuse for them to come together. They both knew it. Through all the weeks of "scientific" meetings, he had sensed a pain much like his own twisting in her heart. He could not give her what she wanted. Yet Lauren continued to smile, to hope, to make plans that included him.

"What is it?" she asked gently. "What's wrong?"

He made no reply.

"You're shutting me out again. Why?"

Spock forced himself to turn and meet the hurting in her eyes. "Lauren," his voice strained, "I am not right for you."

Her face fell. " _I_ don't think so. You didn't used to think so, either."

"I have changed."

"I know. I accept that."

"No," Spock said emphatically. "You do not the hell know anything about me."

Lauren stared at him. Tears sprang into her eyes and her jaw firmed with anger. "Oh, really? Well, I have news, Captain. I've seen just about every side of you there is to see. Have you completely forgotten our stay on Gamma Vertas IV? Or what drugs did to you afterward? You weren't always nice then, either. I _know_ you're not perfect—you never were."

Spock's temper flared. "I never claimed to be anything…anything but—"

" _Human_?" Lauren stepped up to him, clearly furious. "Oh, that dirty word. Go ahead, hold tight to your Vulcan dignity. Kiss it and take it to bed with you, and see if it kisses you back."

Anger surging, Spock clenched his fists and said, "We are finished!"

Lauren turned on her heel and stormed from the apartment. The door partially closed behind her, then made a strange laboring sound and snapped open again. Kirk appeared in the doorway. His hazel eyes sought out Spock, silently requesting permission to enter. There was no graceful way to refuse him.

Working to compose himself, Spock said, "Captain."

Kirk stepped inside and gestured back over his shoulder. "What's up with Lauren? You two feuding again?"

"We are…collaborating," Spock replied levelly, "on a medical research project."

"I see," Kirk said and fell silent. For a moment he just looked at Spock. Then his hands came together and he began to twist the Enterprise signet ring that he had received from Spock one Christmas. It meant he was nervous.

Spock returned to the computer and pretended to take as interest in the display. "It is Doctor Fielding's study of plakir-fee. She still hopes to adapt the technique used in my healing so that it will benefit full-blooded Vulcans."

"She's a dedicated woman."

Spock stared at the screen. "Yes."

Kirk came up to the desk and cleared his throat. "Spock," he said softly, "I've just come from Admiral Morrow's office." The pretense was over. Spock sat back and let his breath out slowly. "Maybe," Kirk added, "if you told them everything. About what you went through, about T'Beth…"

Spock experienced a fresh influx of anger. It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain even a semblance of control. Kirk of all people should understand something of a Vulcan's need for privacy. "Captain," he said. "Please…"

Kirk did not seem to hear him. Caught up in his own emotions, the captain put his hands on the desk and leaned closer. "Spock. Do you think this is easy for me? The Klingons killed my son. They murdered David. It hurts like hell, but at least I can say it. It's no good keeping things all bottled up inside."

Once more, Spock's hands clenched. Yes. Losing David had hurt Kirk. But it was not the same. It was not Jim's back that had suffered the Klingon's lash. It was not his ears that had endured their insults, their lies, and had almost grown to accept them. It was not he who had played the dutiful slave while Torlath laughed and did as he pleased with his young daughter—a daughter who would no longer even speak to him. No. It was not the same. And it was not something Spock could talk about—with Kirk, with McCoy, and certainly not with a psychiatrist.

Wordlessly he rose, went into his bedroom, and the door slid shut behind him.

oooo

Lauren usually spent her weekends at the beach house. Saturday morning was a lazy time. Though she was not one to sleep late, she did enjoy the luxury of staying in bed until she felt good and ready to start the day.

This morning she lay listening to the rhythmic pounding of the surf. Why hurry? Spock probably wouldn't be out to work on their project, not after the way she unloaded on him at his apartment. _We are finished,_ he had said. Had he meant _permanently finished?_ Either way, things might never be the same between them—as if there ever  had been anything between her and this Spock but memories. Considering his mental state, she had not been surprised to hear that he was grounded. What surprised her was how deeply she still cared.

Sighing, Lauren threw back the covers. No use nursing old wounds. She showered and ate breakfast, then sat out on the porch with a pad of paper. The day was brilliant and unseasonably warm, the pleasant sort of weather her grandmother would have called "Indian summer". For a time she lost herself in the restless motion of wind and wave, pausing only to take down an occasional note. Fine inspirations sometimes came to her in this receptive state. Time passed quickly.

At noon she stood up and stretched. Spock was late—very late. Clearly he _wasn't_ coming, and there was not a thing she could do about it. God knows, she had already spent enough time fretting over him and his strange ways. But how to stop fretting? Every time she tried to forget him, a distant whispering of his pain beckoned to her heart. Some days the feeling made her feel used and angry. At other times she clung to it like a life preserver.

After lunch, Lauren sat down again and began to doodle. A taut, intricate pattern of curlicues half-filled the page before she looked up again—and saw Spock standing at the base of the walk in dark civilian clothes. Startled, she dropped her pencil. There was no sign of a skimmer anywhere. Had be beamed in?

"I thought you weren't coming," she said loudly enough to be heard above the surf.

His eyes traveled over the windows and the screen door and then back to her. He asked, "Are you alone?"

"Just me and sea gulls."

He came up the walk and stopped at the porch steps, his face unreadable as he said, "I...spoke to you discourteously."

Lauren's heart warmed and her lips stirred into a hint of a smile. "Well…I wasn't exactly polite, either." Her smile faded. "I heard about your setback with Starfleet. Are you going to resume teaching?"

Turning his face aside, he gazed at the ocean. "I have not yet been assigned other duties. If, in fact, I am deemed capable of performing any other duties."

The defeat in his voice made her want to take him into her arms. Here was the man who had entered a reactor room and hooked up the mains with his bare hands. Brilliant and disciplined, resourceful and confident in the face of any difficulty. _But that,_ she reminded herself, _was before._ Spock was right. He _had_ changed. And if Lauren sometimes found that change painful and frustrating, how must he feel? But she refused to let her feelings for him degenerate into pity.

Lauren made herself say, "I hope you don't expect me to feel sorry for you. I hope you're only trying to tell me that you have some time on your hands, because Captain, you are one of the most capable people I have ever known, and I could use some of that extra time of yours on my—on _our_ project."

His head came around and he looked her full in the eyes. The salt breeze riffled his hair as he took measure of her. _Don't walk away,_ her heart pleaded. _Can't you see that I really mean it?_

To her relief he nodded and followed her into the house. They would not quarrel today.


	2. Chapter 2

Under orders from Doctor Stackhouse, Spock presented himself at Starfleet Medical Center for treatment. A refusal to appear would have meant an automatic dismissal from the service.

Stackhouse escorted him to a small room in the psychiatric wing. The walls and carpeting and furniture were all done in muted shades of rose—scientifically selected, no doubt, for their soothing effect on the human psyche. But the coloration disturbed Spock. It stirred up memories of Gamma Vertas IV with its humid skies of unrelenting pink. It reminded him of suffering and sickbeds and encroaching death.

Stackhouse triggered the door shut and indicated a pink and white sofa beside a window. "Captain."

He sat stiffly and eyed the psychoscan unit installed in one corner. Incredibly it, too, was pink.

"Don't worry," Stackhouse said. "We won't be using that today."

Spock watched her settle into a chair and cross her legs. She seemed so utterly sure of herself, so serene, so controlled—everything that he longed to be. Not for the first time, he found himself disliking the woman intensely.

Her brown eyes studied him. "Are you comfortable?"

"No," Spock replied honestly.

"May I ask why?"

He did not want to answer her. Nevertheless, he explained about the sky's color on Gamma Vertas IV. He briefly told her about his sojourn there, about the illness that had for a time threatened his life.

"I see," she said, and was silent for a moment. Then she asked, "Is that all that's bothering you?"

Spock looked at her and said nothing.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

He hesitated. To reply in the affirmative seemed unmannerly, yet he was unwilling to lie. Finally he said, "Yes."

"Why?"

His jaw twitched with annoyance. "I am not accustomed to answering questions of a personal nature."

"I understand," she said soothingly. "It's well known that Vulcans treasure their privacy. You must find this process painfully invasive. But Captain, I am not an adversary. I'm your doctor. I'm here to help you. If you find yourself unable to accept that help, a Vulcan healer can still be provided."

"No," Spock said firmly. He had had enough of healers on Vulcan. He could not bear to open his mind and divulge the humiliating details of his captivity among the Klingons. It was bad enough that Starfleet expected him to discuss his difficulties with a psychiatrist. A Vulcan did not talk about emotions. A Vulcan repressed them.

He was relieved when Stackhouse released him from the day's session. Now, as never before, he understood his daughter's resistance to psychiatric counseling. He wasted no time finding the nearest exit, a side door that opened onto a breezeway between two wings. Outside, the day was cold and cloudy. A soaking drizzle fell as he headed toward the street.

"Hey!" a voice rang out. "Spock, wait up!"

Reluctantly Spock stopped and turned around. Doctor McCoy hurried to catch up with him. Red in the face, McCoy puffed, "What's the big idea walking out on Jim the other day?"

"I had nothing to say to him," Spock replied levelly.

"Nothing to say!" McCoy scowled. "My God man, think of everything he's done for you—and you have nothing to say?"

Spock stared stonily at the doctor. "I am well aware of my indebtedness to Captain Kirk."

" _Jim,_ Spock. You used to call him Jim."

 _I used to do a great many things differently,_ Spock thought with impatience. _Would people never tire of pointing that out?_ "Jim," he stressed the name for McCoy's benefit, "need not be concerned about me."

"Then tell him so. But don't go slamming the door in your friend's face."

At that McCoy stalked off, leaving Spock to puzzle over the meaning of he rebuke. _Slam the door?_ He had not slammed any door. Surely Doctor McCoy knew that Starfleet employed the sliding door mechanism in all its ships and bases. And even if it _were_ possible to slam the door, Kirk's face— _Jim's_ face—had been nowhere near it at the time.

Frowning, Spock turned once again toward the street. The storm was intensifying. Rain pelted down as he left the cover of the breezeway. A few soaked pedestrians rushed past him, intent on reaching shelter. Suddenly a hooded figure wearing a raincoat swerved directly into his path. A smooth cool hand brushed against his. Spock's first instinct was to avoid the contact and step aside, but the feeling gave way to one of acceptance as he identified the touch. Lauren's unyielding concern for him was both pleasant and disturbing.

She threw back her hood. Raindrops splashed her freckled nose as she smiled up at him. "I saw you out the window…talking to McCoy. Do you have a minute to come inside? I'd like to show you around my lab."

Another minute and he would be soaked to the skin. "Very well," Spock said and followed her.

They hurried up the steps of the north entrance, into the relative warmth of the lobby. The research department was a short walk down a corridor. Lauren ushered him into an airy, spotless laboratory and gave a lively tour, introducing her assistants, relating some details of each experiment in progress.

Spock listened with interest. As always, the research at SMC was on the cutting edge of medical science. But it was more than that. Lauren's enthusiasm for her work was refreshing after the somber tension of the psychiatric wing. It was good seeing her blue eyes sparkling, her body relaxed and moving with easy grace. It somehow made him feel more relaxed, too. And abruptly a lost memory returned to him—they had kissed aboard ship, before he died. Their bodies and their minds had touched. Now he understood why she had made reference to kissing during their argument. It was no wonder that he sometimes sensed the latent energy of a mental link stirring between them. It was as if he had only to reach out and she would be his again.

"Captain?"

With a start Spock realized he was staring at her. Lauren returned the look, her eyes full of consideration. "Captain, I hope I'm not boring you."

"No." Thinking of the kiss, Spock felt himself color. "No. Please continue, Doctor." And paying strict attention, he followed her to the next workstation.

Later, he returned to the faculty building and changed out of his wet clothes. These past weeks he had grown comfortable with his former surroundings. It sometimes seemed as if the warmth and familiarity of these rooms were all that were left to him. He had lost the respect and affection of his only child. He had lost his place aboard the Enterprise. And unless he was permitted to resume teaching, even these faculty quarters would be taken away from him and turned over to a more useful member of Starfleet.

Spock cued up a random selection of music and was heading for his desk when the sound of a flute solo stopped him. He changed the selection, then submerged himself in the plakir-fee project. Attempting to manually reconstruct so much data was a formidable task. After seeing Lauren in her lab today, it was harder than ever to picture her deliberately destroying an entire body of her beloved research. Yet she had done it—out of grief for him.

For a moment he sat back and just listened to the piano concerto. The composition was one that his mother sometimes played. He envisioned her fingers working, her body moving with the music, and wished that he could play like her, uninhibited by Vulcan notions of good taste. Lilting music, anguished music, a cry from the heart so haunting and human that anyone who heard it would know of his pain.

The composition ended. The room went silent. Spock gazed at the wall for a long time, thinking.

oooo

Wordlessly Doctor Stackhouse escorted Spock into a treatment room. At the doorway he hesitated, more than a little startled. The carpet, the walls, the furnishings, and even the psychoscan unit lurking in the corner were a tasteful study of the color red.

"Do you like this better?" she asked, watching closely for his reaction.

Spock felt manipulated and demeaned. Did she think that exposing him to the traditional Vulcan color would somehow elicit the response she desired? Did she consider him so weak-minded? Giving in to his displeasure, he said, "I find it insulting."

Her eyebrow rose. "Do you? Why is that?"

Spock drew in a deep, steadying breath. He moved to the crimson patterned sofa and sat stiffly. The sooner they began, the sooner the ordeal would be over.

Stackhouse took a seat and looked at him. "You seem very tense today."

Spock's eyes flamed. "This is pointless."

She frowned. "Really, Captain? Tell me why."

"Because it is true," he replied, barely holding onto his temper. "These sessions are unproductive. My time would be better spent elsewhere."

"What would you _like_ to be doing?"

The question took Spock by surprise. Even so, he answered at once. "I want to teach."

"At the academy?"

"Yes," he said, the beginnings of hope stirring. If Stackhouse were to approve, if he could by logic convince her…

"Why?" she asked predictably.

Spock gave the matter careful thought. "Teaching is a useful, satisfying endeavor. I have much knowledge to impart."

Stackhouse interlaced her fingers and coolly gazed at him. "But teaching was never your first choice. Was it, Captain? Your first choice was Space exploration."

Spock turned his face to the window so she would not see the bitter emotions warring in him. She had no intention of helping him regain a position at the academy. It was all just another form of manipulation.

"Are you angry with _me?"_ she asked with the professional detachment of her kind. When he failed to reply she said, "I ask you to remember something. I am not the one keeping you off the Enterprise."

He whirled and looked at her, disbelieving. "Tell me—who, then? _You_ are head of this department."

Very calmly she said, "You. You're the one."

oooo

It was true. As a Vulcan, Spock had been raised to accept even the most painful truths, but to have his error pointed out to him by Sayda Stackhouse was particularly galling. After his session, he retreated to a library room where he spent the remainder of the day perusing scientific journals and avoiding everybody he knew.

It was dark when he left the building. Strings of colored lights shone from lampposts by the street. Similar decorations outlined distant rooftops and windows. Christmastime. A year since he and T'Beth survived the Klingon horror. Shivering, Spock thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and remembered. _Filthy, violent animals. He could still feel their dirt under his fingernails. Still feel the miserable ache of cold, of subjugation. Torlath, damn him to hell, with his iron whip. Laughing. Taunting. Watching him suck in his breath and bleed. "Serve me", Torlath had said, "and I will spare your daughter..."_

As Spock walked, he dreamed a brutal revenge on the lying bastard. The fantasy came to an abrupt end outside his apartment when someone called his name. At the sound of Lauren's voice some of the darkness lifted from him. Turning, he found her rushing up.

Without preliminaries she asked, "Have you eaten?"

"Not since morning," he replied.

"Good," she said, lifting a pair of restaurant boxes. "I brought dinner. The Vulcan specialty from Galactic Cuisine."

Spock raised an appreciative eyebrow and palmed the door's switch plate. Inside, Lauren whisked the chess set off the table and poured two glasses of Altair water from Spock's stores. Then she sat down and triggered the heat strips on the meal boxes. By the time Spock took off his overcoat and joined her, the food was steaming hot. They ate together in companionable silence.

"This was very kind of you," Spock said at last.

"Kind?" Her blue eyes openly questioned him. "I think you know it's more than that."

Yes. Spock knew. She had sensed his need and come to him, just as she had sensed his need outside the lab and on other occasions. Day by day he felt the link between them growing stronger. He could not seem to prevent it. And now he very nearly reached across the table, but he had no right to draw her into his private torment. It would be better for her if she walked out now and never returned. Looking at her slender fingers, he said, "Lauren. I am certain Doctor McCoy would be pleased to have you aboard the new Enterprise. Have you applied for duty?"

"No," she said. "I haven't."

Spock's sense of relief only made what he had to say more difficult. Raising his eyes, he began again. "I…must tell you that my…situation has not improved. Nor is it likely to improve soon."

"Don't say that."

"It _must_ be said," he stated unemotionally. "I will not have you limit your career for my sake."

The blue of Lauren's gaze intensified as she leaned forward. "There was once a Vulcan boy—bright, fiercely independent, angry. Things weren't going well for him. Finally he turned on his cruel companions and ran away. When I followed him to his hiding place, he asked, 'Why do you concern yourself with me?' Do you remember?"

Spock recalled that particular incident well, though he would have preferred not to. One was not likely to forget being plunged by aliens into a false childhood. Reluctantly he nodded. "I was that boy."

"And I never answered you," Lauren said. "I was too much of a child myself."

Spock pushed back his chair and went to a window. Gazing down into the moonlit commons, he said, "This is totally irrelevant. We were discussing your career in Starfleet."

"Is it?" she asked. "Were we?"

"You sound like my psychoanalyst," he said with some asperity. "You are an excellent physician, a gifted researcher. As a member of McCoy's medical department your talents will be put to their fullest use."

Lauren left the table. Coming up behind him, she touched his back. The gentle pressure of her fingers made his scars throb, but the feeling was far too pleasant to be categorized as pain. At times the thought of this touch was all that had sustained him among the Klingons. Light in the midst of darkness, a desperately sweet dream. And now here she stood, clearly wanting him, yet as far out of his reach as ever.

"Look at me," she said softly.

He would not. But her hands took hold and turned him with such tender insistence that he could not help but look at her. She was much too near, much too lovely.

"Spock," she said with quiet determination. "I'm afraid Doctor McCoy will have to do without me. _This_ is where I want to be. This is where I _have_ to be."

Spock fought a growing thickness in his throat. "I…I cannot accept that."

"You have no choice."

"But it is not logical for you—"

"To love?"

Her words effectively silenced him. Taking something out of her pocket, she pressed it, cold and hard, into Spock's palm. He glanced down and saw it was an antique key.

"It's for the beach house," she said. "I don't want there to be any walls between us. Any doors. Any locks."

Spock experienced such a rush of tender emotion that he dared not speak. At that moment he could easily have taken her into his arms. _No,_ he warned himself, _she doesn't know what she is asking. I cannot let her see the sort of man I have become._

"I'm not taking it back," she said firmly. "Not the key, not anything."

Spock curled his fingers around the metal. Looking into her eyes, he merely said, "I will keep it."

oooo

Spock sat in the red room with Doctor Stackhouse, but his mind was elsewhere. As the session dragged on, he fingered the pocket hidden in the lining of his uniform jacket. Through the fabric he could feel the notched outline of Lauren's key. _Was it wrong for him to accept it? Was it wrong of him to take pleasure in this small token of her trust and affection?_

"Captain."

Spock gave the doctor a bland look. Today he was determined to maintain his composure no matter how much she annoyed him.

"Captain," she repeated, "now that I have your attention, we will discuss your experience on Genesis."

Spock's stomach went leaden. What did the doctor know of Genesis? Everyone associated with the ill-fated planet had been sworn to secrecy.

"It's alright, Captain. I have security clearance. You can speak freely. I understand that Klingons on Genesis mistreated you. You witnessed the murder of Captain Kirk's son."

Still, Spock held back. His reluctance to answer involved more than military restraint. For him Genesis had been and always would be a deeply personal subject. It was a long moment before he could bring himself to speak. "On Genesis…my intellect was undeveloped…infantile. I have no clear memory of what happened there."

"Of course," soothed the doctor. "But surely you have _impressions_ of what happened _._ Tell me about those. Tell me about your _feelings."_

Spock went hot with embarrassment. He had no wish to recall the dim creature he had been on Genesis. He had no wish to dredge up any part of those memories. Yet he knew he must. Unless he showed some sign of cooperation soon, the doctor might order other methods.

He glanced at the gleaming psychoscan unit in the corner. In his present state, he was not sure he could resist its mechanical probing. Even if he could, such resistance might well be considered a refusal of medical treatment—grounds for automatic expulsion from Starfleet.

Spock tried to recall the calm purpose with which he had approached today's session. He could feel the doctor watching him, could almost feel the suffocating pressure of her thoughts and emotions. _Impatience. Anger. Hers or his own?_ He knew only that he must be rid of the oppressive sensation. He must be rid of it now. In his mind he saw himself rising from the sofa. He saw his hands closing around her neck, her eyes bulging with panic, her skin slowly turning as black as any Klingon's—

"Captain," her voice pleaded.

Spock blinked and looked at her. She gazed calmly back at him, safe in her chair across the room.

"Captain," she said, "you must try."

It annoyed him that she could sit there like a creature apart, that she had not perceived his appalling mental flight, had not taken control of the situation at once. It was clear to him now—as clear as the painful reality of his own failure. He must be made to answer for his every thought or there would be no healing. And not even a psycho-scanner could accomplish that.

"It is no use," he said. Abruptly he rose and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Stackhouse called after him. "Captain—!"

Ignoring her, he walked out.

oooo

" _What?"_ McCoy bellowed at the phone screen. "What do you mean, 'Spock is missing'?"

Doctor Stackhouse eyed him dispassionately. "At our last session he seemed particularly frustrated. Since then he's missed two appointments and I've been unable to reach him. I want you to know that he's at serious risk of dismissal."

"Great." McCoy wiped at his face, leaving a long dirty smudge. He had just come in from his garden when the phone rang.

"Have you seen him since Friday?" Stackhouse asked.

McCoy shook his head. He was ashamed to realize that he hadn't spoken to Spock since that rainy day outside the medical center. And that had only been to harangue him. What kind of friend was he, anyway? Since sharing Spock's katra, he sometimes felt a need to distance himself from the Vulcan. But no matter how much he tried, it always came back to this—to Spock. "Don't worry," he told the psychiatrist, though he was plenty worried. "Spock's probably gone off on one of his scientific jaunts. I'll check around and see what I can find out."

oooo

Kirk was aboard the Enterprise when the call came. Although Spacedock lay directly above San Francisco, reception was ridiculously poor. The comscreen sizzled with static as he leaned forward, struggling to catch McCoy's words.

"…not answering his personal phone. I've tried his apartment, the Vulcan embassy, and every other place I could think of. What about you, Jim? Any idea where Spock might be?"

The screen blinked off. Kirk slammed his fist against the console and McCoy's image reappeared and steadied. Kirk said, "I tried calling him yesterday. I left a message, but never heard back. I figured he was still ticked off. You know, I've been so preoccupied with these malfunctions…" He stopped to think. Static hissed softly in the stillness of his cabin. "Wait a minute. Have you tried Doctor Fielding? I saw her leaving Spock's apartment the day I was there. He said they're working on some project together."

McCoy's eyes lit up. "Spock and Lauren. Of course!"

oooo

The call reached Lauren in the medical center's cafeteria. At the sound of McCoy's voice, a sick feeling slithered through the pit of her stomach. Somehow she knew it was about Spock. The doctor's words only verified what she had already suspected for days.

"I was afraid of this," she murmured. Her thready connection to Spock was gone. Sometime on Friday he had erected a barrier between them, shutting her out completely. Since that aching moment she had neither seen nor heard nor sensed anything of his presence. She did not even know it he was alive.

"Afraid?" McCoy seized on the word. "Why? What do you mean?"

"He was supposed to work with me Saturday," she hedged, "but he never showed up. And yesterday I went to his apartment, but he didn't answer the door."

McCoy looked as anxious as she felt. "The last time you two were together, did anything unusual happen? Did he say anything, anything at all about leaving?"

"No, nothing about leaving. You think he's gone off someplace?"

"I don't know," McCoy answered tiredly. "I got clearance to check his apartment. Nothing much seems to be gone, at least as far as I could tell."

"Then he's probably still around here," Lauren said hopefully. "I'll stop by his place again tonight. Maybe he'll be back by then."

McCoy seemed to relax a little. "Thanks, Laurie. If he's there—if you hear anything at all…"

"I'll spread the word."

oooo

It was late when Lauren finally arrived at Spock's door. She knocked and then rang the doorchime. No one came. She knocked again, long and hard. Screwing up her courage, she touched the switch plate. The door opened, as it did for everyone. Spock rarely used the security system.

Lauren peered into the dark, hot apartment. "Captain?" she called softly. "Spock?"

A faint sound seemed to come from his open bedroom, where a light flickered dimly. The guttering of his attunement lamp. Was he meditating? She stepped fully into the apartment and turned on the living room lights. Everything was in perfect order, but the place felt as empty as a cave.

"Spock!" she called again, louder.

There was no answer. A cautious search of the remaining rooms confirmed that he wasn't there. But his bedroom closet and drawers were full of clothes. Only his overcoat was missing, along with a few toiletries. _Well then,_ she told herself, _at least wherever he is, he's warm._ For the sake of her sanity she had to believe that he wasn't lying cold and dead in some watery ditch.

A gust of wind rattled the bedroom window. Lauren startled at the sound and shivered, despite the heat. Collecting herself she went into the living room, lowered the temperature a bit, and dimmed the lights. Then she stretched out on the sofa. When Spock came home he would find her there. He would explain what he was up to, worrying everyone half to death. Oh yes, he would explain, even if she had to yank it piece by piece out of his stubborn closed-up brain.

oooo

Spock sat in a skimmer atop a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The first rays of sun passed through the transparent canopy and warmed him. The dawn of yet another day. _Wednesday? Thursday?_ He was no longer certain. Shielding his turbulent thoughts demanded a great deal of energy, and he had slept little since leaving base.

For a moment he gave in to his fatigue and closed his eyes. The sunlight burned green on his eyelids as he sat thinking of T'Beth. He was surprised at how much his daughter's rejection continued to pain him. Almost sixteen now, another year wasted by misunderstanding and conflict.

He thought of his parents—of Amanda, so often frustrated and hurt by his inept behavior since fal-tor-pan. Of Sarek, trying as never before to comprehend this worrisome son of his—trying, yet soon to be disappointed by Spock's impending failure as a Starfleet officer, and as a Vulcan. Another Sybok, another blot on the noble clan of Talek-sen-deen. Another Sparn, drifting aimlessly…

With a pang Spock opened his eyes and looked out at the ocean. His need for a healer was acute. Enough logic remained in him to acknowledge that simple truth, even though pride prevented him from acting upon it. He did not need a healer's touch to remind him that he was something less than Vulcan. From the earliest mists of childhood he had lived a life apart—neither Vulcan nor human, at times riven by inner forces beyond even his own understanding.

With whom could he share the bitter weight of his thoughts? Jim Kirk? McCoy? He could not open himself completely to any man. Who then did that leave?

Deep in his heart there was a tugging, a whisper. He fought to ignore it. His hands reached for the skimmer controls only to hesitate, turn back, and touch his jacket yet again. Through the fabric his fingers traced the irregular shape of Lauren's key. Warmed by his body, it beckoned to him. He dared not let himself respond. Wrenching his hand away, he started the skimmer. With a lurch it rose up and arced westward. In a moment he was over the water. Salt mist clung to the windshield as Spock glided above the whitecaps, picking up speed. Behind him the shoreline rapidly receded and disappeared.

He was alone with the ocean. Slowing, he triggered open the side window. A wintry wind chilled him as he studied the blue-green tempest below. He remembered the cold bite of the waves in San Francisco Bay when he emerged from the Klingon Bird of Prey. It would be even colder this time of year. Death would come quickly for a Vulcan swimming in these waters.

At his touch the controls shifted. The skimmer began to bank. The ocean swept by in a dizzying rush of color. He had died before. He was not afraid. As he considered what lay ahead, a startling snatch of memory arose from the dust of years. Prison bars. McCoy's face close to his. McCoy's words burning their way into his heart like acid. _Do you know why you're not afraid of dying, Spock? You're more afraid of living. Every day you stay alive is one more day you might slip…and let your human half peek out. That's is, isn't it? Insecurity! Why, you wouldn't know what to do with a genuine warm, decent feeling—_

oooo

"No!" The scream in her throat jolted Lauren awake. Her heart slamming, she reared up on the sofa and searched the shadows. "Who's there?" she gasped. "Spock…?"

The room was still. Yet somehow his presence filled her, his voice silently called out to her, demanding that she drop everything and go to him— _now_. She didn't question the feeling. There was no time for that. If it was as she feared, there was no time left for anything but action.

 _But where? Where was he?_

A sob formed in her throat. She swallowed hard. Jumping to her feet, she rushed out the door. A moment later she was sprinting through the crisp morning air of the commons. Out of breath, she burst into an academy transporter station. Her disheveled appearance brought the sleepy-eyed attendant to his feet.

"Sir…?" he asked.

Lauren pushed at her hair self-consciously Overnight some of the curls had pulled free of her braid. Her face was branded with the pattern of Spock's sofa. She was making a spectacle of herself.

"Sir. Can I help you?"

Never mind how she looked. Lauren strained to decipher the elusive urgings deep inside her. Some place cold. Some place damp. And as familiar as the gray mist of sunrise on ocean water. Could that be it? Could it be so simple, after all? As simple and undramatic as home? Hopping into a transporter booth, she reeled off the address of her beach house.

The attendant shifted uncomfortably. "Sir…I'm sorry, but that's not an approved destination."

Lauren's eyes narrowed to glints of steel. "Your name, cadet."

"C…Clatworthy," he stammered at attention. "Senior Cadet Jason Clatworthy."

" _My_ name," she said, "is Fielding— _Doctor_ Lauren Alice Fielding. And this is a medical emergency. Are you aware, Senior Cadet Clatworthy, of the regulations concerning—" She broke off, exasperated. "But this is a waste of time! I'll just work the transporter myself."

"No, sir!" Clatworthy's face reddened. "I mean that won't be necessary, sir!" Turning to his board, he feverishly adjusted the controls.

A tingling whirl of darkness closed on Lauren, then the sun caught her full in the face. Blinking, she turned. The beach house lay straight ahead, smoke rising from its chimney. And parked in the drive, a skimmer.

Lauren took off running. She was hardly aware of her feet racing over the sand and up the paving stones to the porch. There, an unexpected sound brought her to an abrupt halt. _Music. Piano music._

Hesitantly she cracked open the front door. The brooding quality of the music beckoned her inside, where she stopped, openmouthed with astonishment. Spock was playing her grandmother's piano. The old upright had stood in a corner of the living room for years, gathering dust and knickknacks. Who knew when it was last tuned? Lauren certainly did not remember it ever sounding this beautiful. She waited, scarcely taking a breath, until the final note was struck.

As Spock's fingers left the keyboard, she said, "I didn't know you could play like that."

He laughed. The short, wrenching sound died somewhere deep in his throat. "Like a human?" he asked.

Lauren felt a surge of annoyance. "Is there something wrong with being human? _I'm_ human and so is your mother. It's half of your heritage. You can't deny it."

"I do not deny it," he insisted. His hand balled into a fist and hovered over the keys.

Quickly she said, "That piano's been in my family for generations. I don't mind you playing it, but so help me, if you damage it…"

To her relief, his hand relaxed. Rising from the piano bench, Spock faced her. The jacket of his uniform was open and rumpled. He looked as if he had been sleeping in an anteroom of hell, but then so did she.

"That's better," she said. "Now tell me what's wrong. Everyone's worried."

He stood silently before her.

"You came here, to my house. You called to me."

"Yes," he admitted, as if that were somehow cause for shame.

But Lauren would not let him retreat from her, not this time. She had come too far, had invested too much in this man to lose him now. Crossing the room, she touched her palms to the front of his jacket. His body tensed noticeably. "Open to me," she said softly. " _Please_ , Spock."

Tears shone on the rigid planes of his face. His eyes were black with pain. Casting about for some way to help him, she remembered the tender interplay he had initiated aboard the Enterprise, just hours before his death. Slowly, cautiously, she brought her right hand into contact with his left—fingers to fingers, palm to palm. His skin burned beneath her caress as she willed him to begin the process of mental joining.

It was like touching a piece of stone. A chill of fear chased over her and she let her arm drop. With unearthly speed Spock lashed out and captured it in a painfully tight grip. Lauren gasped. Spock gazed down at her with eyes that smoldered.

"Damn you," he said through his teeth. "Will you accept now that I have changed?"

She felt like slapping him for that. Instead, she caught him by the neck and kissed his mouth angrily. She would not have been surprised if he sent her flying across the room, but before she was half finished it became evident that he had no intention of sending her anywhere.

A sofa was nearby, a wide old monstrosity draped in afghans. Vaguely Lauren was aware of Spock's arms lifting her easily and settling her onto the cushions. Perhaps his fingertips brushed her temple, she was not sure. She saw only his eyes. She felt only the searing stab of his thoughts spilling into hers, and the ugly memories they revealed.

She tried to speak. She tried to tell him how her heart ached for all he had suffered, how she understood the bitter emotions driving him, how she would gladly share in his pain always. She saw all that he had been and all that he had become, even as he saw her…


	3. Chapter 3

Judging by the light from the windows, Lauren figured it was close to noon. The fire had burned to embers, but she did not want to get up from the sofa and attend to it. Warm beneath her cover, she listened to Spock's even breathing as he slept, wrapped in an afghan, on the floor beside her. She knew without looking that his face was placid, untroubled by the demons she had glimpsed within him.

She felt safe having him nearby. There was a sense that he was guarding her, even from the unpredictable force of her own passion. This morning he had known that she was his for the taking. He had seen what she was willing to give him, yet he had reserved for himself only a gentleman's portion. She knew now that she could trust him as she had never before trusted any man.

A musical tone shattered the peaceful silence. In a corner of the room, the phone clamored insistently. On the floor Spock stirred and opened his eyes. He sat up.

"They're looking for me," Lauren whispered guiltily. "I'm afraid we're both AWOL now."

"Perhaps you should answer," Spock suggested.

She shook her head. "No. Not yet."

Spock shrugged an eyebrow. The phone advanced to its message mode and stopped ringing. Lauren reached out and touched his shoulder. She wasn't ready to go back. She wasn't ready to leave him yet.

In some strange, wordless way he seemed to understand her mood and take pleasure in it. Moving closer, he pressed his lips to her cheek, her forehead, her unruly hair.

"You are beautiful," he said softly.

Tears welled in her eyes. Her hand drifted to the smooth skin along his neck. She wanted to touch and soothe the scars left by Torlath's whip, the long thin slash carved into his chest by Torlath's knife. Though she had not seen them with her eyes, she knew they were there. It angered her to think how the Klingon had abused him, but Spock would have his revenge. He would live. He would heal. In the sharing of his pain he would grow strong again.

"I love you," she said.

The breath caught in her throat as she felt his mind reaching for her. Then his thoughts joined with hers and the world drifted far, far away…

oooo

Lauren stood before the living room mirror plaiting her freshly washed hair into a single Starfleet regulation braid. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Spock coming downstairs. She was glad they had taken the time to eat and shower and cycle their uniforms through the fresher. When they returned to base they would at least look the part of officers. And they could no longer put off that moment of return.

Her fingers went cold as she put the finishing touches on her appearance. "I'd better call ahead so they'll know we're on our way."

She met Spock's gaze in the mirror and found no objection. Quietly he asked, "How do you intend to explain your absence?"

Her stomach tightened. Her mouth went dry. "I…I'm not sure."

"You must tell them the truth," he said.

She turned, her eyes questioning him. "What _is_ the truth?"

"You came to me because my mind called to you. I am also responsible for keeping you here."

Lauren looked at him in dismay. "I can't say that! It's only partly true."

"Is it? I intend to take full responsibility."

"But if they think you used your mind on me, they'll lock you up."

"Lauren," he said patiently, "returning under your medical authority will indicate that I am cooperating. There will be no reason for them to confine me."

"Reason?" Lauren marveled at his calm certainty. "Spock. Starfleet has been known to make up their own reasons when it suits them."

"All will be well," he assured her.

Spock offered his hand in the manner of Vulcan lovers, two fingers extended. Gone was the look of a man living on the ragged edge. Oh, there were some lingering difficulties, but Lauren trusted that in time they would be resolved. With a full heart she went to him. It felt good when their fingers touched—two halves smoothly interlocking, like the way their thoughts mingled each time they kissed. If only they could stay like this forever. But before the day was out, Starfleet would intrude on them with its own brand of reality. And she was not sure if either of them was truly prepared.

oooo

The walls of Spock's "suite" were gray…and softly padded to discourage self-inflicted injuries. A small opening in the cushioned door provided his only view of the world outside the psychiatric containment cell—a slice of polished corridor, flashes of movement, the steady murmur of voices audible to his sensitive hearing. All through the tedious evening Spock sat on his bunk, listening. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, and guards—everyone had something to say about him. A few were so bold as to peek in at the mad Vulcan when they thought he was not aware.

Spock tried not to be bothered by it. He was encouraged by the degree of calm with which he faced this latest turn of events. There had been a mistake made, that was all. As soon as Doctor Stackhouse examined him, she would see that he was no danger to himself or to anyone. Meanwhile, Lauren and Kirk and McCoy were doing everything in their power to secure his release. Closing his eyes, he sought out the age-old formula of meditation. Another hour passed.

At last the door opened. Spock rose from his bunk as Lauren and McCoy entered the cell and the door locked behind them. One look at their taut, angry faces and he knew they had been unsuccessful.

"That woman is impossible," Lauren fumed, her voice pitched low to evade any surveillance devices.

"A brick wall," hissed McCoy. "Won't see you until she's damn good and ready. Won't even let Jim come in here. Probably afraid he'll stage another wild west jailbreak, like he did for me."

Lauren looked at Spock accusingly. "I _knew_ this was going to happen!"

 _You_ _knew_ _nothing of the sort,_ Spock mused. Though it offended his Vulcan sense of precision, he wisely kept the thought to himself. Aloud he said, "Your appraisal of the situation was more accurate than mine. However, I had little choice but to surrender myself and bear the consequences. Surely you would not have had me stand by silently while you took on the blame for my actions."

Lauren shrugged and her eyes deepened with sadness to the velvety blue of midnight, making her appear very childlike and vulnerable to Spock. But he could not comfort her here—not in front of McCoy, in full view of the hospital monitors. What had passed between Lauren and him at the beach house was a strictly private matter, and for now it would remain so.

"Spock," McCoy said.

Rousing himself, Spock turned to the doctor. McCoy's face glistened from the heat of the cell. At 100 degrees, it was well beyond the comfort zone of most humans.

"Spock," McCoy whispered, "if you aren't out of here tomorrow, I swear I'll bust you free myself."

"How reassuring," Spock said dryly. "And what do you intend to use? Your trusty spray hypo?"

McCoy bristled. "Why, you ungrateful, green-bloodied son a—"

"Shh!" Lauren cautioned, the finger at her lips not quite hiding a little twitch of amusement. She frowned hard at McCoy. "Doctor, please…"

Surprisingly, McCoy subsided. But he was too busy scowling to notice the glance Spock directed at Lauren, and the slight tandem shrug of their eyebrows.

"It has been a tiring day," Spock observed. "I think we could all benefit from some rest."

"Some more than others," muttered McCoy.

With a sigh Lauren cast her eyes downward and followed him to the door. The pleasing scent of her perfume lingered long after the cell lights were dimmed.

oooo

In the morning, Spock received breakfast in his cell. Afterward there was nothing to do but pace or contemplate the hours away. Shortly before noon the door opened and an attendant called to him. Spock was ushered to a small office at the end of a corridor. There, Doctor Stackhouse eyed him dispassionately from behind a marble-topped desk.

"Captain," she said in greeting. "Come. Sit down."

Spock had no desire to do either. Nevertheless, he disregarded his natural inclination and took a seat.

In a businesslike tone she said, "I apologize for holding you overnight, but you left me little choice." Picking up a scriber, she rolled it back and forth, back and forth, between her immaculately groomed fingers. "Tell me, Captain. Why did you leave Base?"

Spock took a moment to be certain of his reply. "It seemed that I was making no progress under your care. It seemed that…no progress was possible."

Her fingers went still. Her dark head bent forward as she consulted a printout on her desk. "I have here a statement you made to the base commander upon your arrival yesterday. In it you freely admit to using a…'mental technique' to affect the behavior of Doctor Lauren Fielding of Starfleet Medical Center."

"That is correct," Spock said.

Her dark eyes probed him. "As you're surely aware, the use of mental force is a serious breech of Starfleet regulations. Tell me, Captain. Tell me why you manipulated the mind of a fellow officer."

Spock felt as if a band were tightening around his chest. "Doctor Fielding," he answered carefully, "has on occasion acted as my physician. She is also my colleague, and my…friend."

"Your _friend?"_ The psychiatrist's voice was mildly incredulous. "Fortunately for you, Fielding seemed to have suffered no ill effects from your…your show of friendship." Primly steepling her fingers atop her desk, she leaned forward. "Come now, Captain—the truth. You didn't use your Vulcan powers on Doctor Fielding because she's your physician…or because she's your colleague…or your friend. You did it for one reason and one reason only. You did it because you are a sick man."

Spock felt his fingers curl and dig into the arms of his chair. Yet somehow the fingers seemed strangely disconnected, as if they—like all the poisonous emotions overtaking him—really belonged to someone else. But of course they did not. The pain and resentment and humiliation were all his. In one regard, Stackhouse was correct. He _was_ sick.

The psychiatrist shifted in her seat, as if making herself comfortable for a long siege. "Captain," she in the tone of a parent addressing a wayward child, "did you expect to come back here and continue as you had before? You said it yourself. You were making no progress. Unless you face the reality of your situation and deal with it in a logical manner, I must recommend your immediate expulsion from—" Her voice broke off as Spock rose suddenly from his chair and towered over her.

"What do you know of logic?" he demanded.

Stackhouse tensed as though fearing he might lunge over the desk and throttle her as he had once fantasized. A week ago he might actually have harmed the pathetic creature. But there was a safehold inside him now, to which he could retreat when he felt himself slipping. Sensing his way inward, his mind reached for it—the Center—the place where Lauren had left behind something of herself that lived on and pulsed warmly with every pulsing of his Vulcan blood. There was comfort there, and beauty, and peace; and when like now his mind strayed into unhealthy patterns of thought, this Center—this precious bonding nexus—shone out like a clear beacon of sanity, reminding him of who he really was and that he was no longer alone.

Stackhouse sat up tall and squared her shoulders. "Sit," she ordered. "We're not finished."

"Yes we are," Spock countered. There was a steadiness to him, a sureness of control that he had not experienced in many months. "Doctor, I regret all the wasted effort"— _clumsy_ effort, he might have added—"that you have expended on my behalf. From the beginning you strongly recommended the intervention of a Vulcan healer. I now agree."

Her mouth dropped open. "You'll see a healer?"

"Yes," Spock said, his voice grave with the knowledge of what this decision would cost him. But he knew now as he had perhaps known all along—there was no other path to mental healing for one nurtured and trained from birth in the ways of Vulcan. And for Lauren's sake, and the sake of the growing bond between them, he _must_ be healed.

Stackhouse riffled through some papers on her desk and scribbled a brief notation. "I'll make the arrangements immediately. Meanwhile, Captain—" her eyes rose with a dark look of warning, "—you are free to move about within the perimeter of the base, but no farther. Understood?"

"Clearly," Spock said.

For a moment it seemed as if she were about to speak again, perhaps shame him with one final caution to keep his Vulcan mind to himself. Instead, she flipped her hand in what Spock took as a dismissal and turned to her computer terminal. He left her presence with the distinct feeling that she was glad to be rid of him. The feeling was mutual.

oooo

Aboard the Enterprise, Lauren sat in a corner of Spock's bed area watching him pack. It was hard for her to conceal a stirring of jealousy. Yosemite would be gorgeous this time of year. She wished she were going, too—even if it meant upsetting the delicate balance between Spock and his close-knit circle of male friends. Sooner or later they would have to deal with the woman in Spock's life.

Her eyes followed him as he sorted through the odd collection of camping gear strewn over his bunk. He looked relaxed and fit in the uniform of a Starfleet commander, as if the reduction in rank did not even mildly concern him—which it didn't. After the arduous weeks of Vulcan therapy, he was pleased to be back on the Enterprise as Kirk's executive officer and head of the science department, duties for which he had always considered himself better suited than the captaincy. He was, first and foremost, a scientist.

His packing finished, Spock disappeared into the bathroom and returned wearing clothing more suitable for "roughing it". As he tucked the blue tartan shirt into his gray pants, Lauren could not help wondering aloud how he would occupy himself for an entire week in the woods.

He paused in mid-tuck and considered. "I have used the library computer to research the practice of 'camping out'. Several of the references correspond with plans the captain has made."

"Such as whitewater rafting and mountain climbing?"

"Yes."

"Two of your all-time favorites," she said dryly.

Without commenting, he turned back to the closet and selected a pair of Reeboks. There was no reason to voice what they both already knew—that he was only going with Kirk because Kirk wished it—that he would have much preferred to stay behind with her and continue the rebuilding a ship that had been slapped together too quickly—that this very minute he was itching to get his knowledgeable fingers back into the Enterprise computer core and unscramble it byte by byte. But here he was, lacing up his shoes and slipping into a warm, serviceable-looking jacket.

Lauren stood. Spock was taller than her by five inches. She liked the difference in their height, the way his head tilted and his brown eyes warmed as he regarded her. The difference in their ages was more dramatic, but he did not even look forty.

"The days will pass quickly," he promised. "There will be ample time for us when I return to the ship."

 _Would there?_ Lauren wondered. _Would there really?_ As soon as Spock was cleared for flight duty, she had applied for and been granted the plum medical position McCoy had been holding open, just in case. The move pleased her, as she knew it pleased Spock. They were fortunate to be posted together, in work they both enjoyed. Cabins in adjoining corridors...a cautious moment or two here...a very discreet hour there. It had taken a painfully long time for their relationship to progress even this far. How long would she be expected to live this divided way of life? Publicly pretending simple friendship for this man who had come to mean so much more.

In her uncertainty she reached out to him. Spock's hand met hers, fingers interlocking in an easy gesture of intimacy. When they were this close Lauren always found herself caught up in the intensity of their love. If only there were more time she would lock the door herself, happily shut out that other part of their lives. If only there were more time…

Sighing, she gently broke away. She fished under the chair and brought out a plainly wrapped parcel. Putting it on the bunk, she said, "It's for you."

Spock briefly looked at the package and then carefully peeled back the brown paper and opened the lid underneath. For a moment he just stared at the contents of the case. Then his eyebrow climbed.

Lauren blushed miserably. "Never mind. It was a silly idea. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You do yourself an injustice," Spock said. Reaching into the case, he took out the white levitation boots and control module and very nearly smiled as he inspected them.

"I can take them back," Lauren offered.

"You will _not,_ " Spock said firmly. "These are exactly what I need to make a close-up study of the trees in Yosemite Park."

Lauren was delighted. "And now you don't have to climb Kirk's mountain. You can levitate your way up."

Spock turned sharply and looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "At times," he said in an admiring tone, "the workings of your mind astound me."

Rising up on her toes, Lauren lightly kissed him, then stood back and touched his cheek. Spock's eyes were clear and steady and full of quiet affection. Setting down the boots, he put his hand over hers.

The intercom sounded.

"Spock?" Kirk's voice called. "Are you there?"

With a sigh Spock left Lauren and leaned over the intercom beside his bed. "Yes, Captain."

"What are you doing?" Kirk burst out. "Bones and I have been waiting in shuttle bay for ten minutes. It's time to go."

"I will be there," Spock assured him, and frowning slightly, signed off. "The transporters are still inoperative," he said as if the fact troubled him.

"Half the ship is still inoperative," Lauren pointed out. She expected him to come back at her with the exact percentage of ship-wide malfunctions. When he turned to his equipment instead, she wondered if he had even heard. She watched him fit his boots into their case and add it to the cumbersome load of gear dangling from his shoulders and hands. He did not look as if he were enjoying himself.

Biting back a smile, Lauren said, "Maybe you should have ordered a pack mule."

He paused long enough to cast her a bemused glance. Then muscling open the door to his quarters—it, too, was malfunctioning—he looked both ways and waved her through before striding down the corridor.

oooo

Nightfall in Yosemite brought with it a decided chill. Spock moved close to McCoy's cooking fire more out of a desire for warmth than for whatever the doctor was so solicitously tending in his pot. He was not very hungry. It was as if had left his stomach in midair this afternoon as he swooped down the sheer rock face of El Capitan to break Kirk's fall. If not for the levitation boots, Kirk would now be dead. If not for Lauren—

"Come and get it!" McCoy yelled as he clattered a rod around the interior of an odd metal triangle.

Kirk grimaced and covered his ears. Spock's sensitive Vulcan hearing had scarcely recovered when McCoy passed him a steaming bowlful of food. The doctor's beans actually smelled good. After a cautious sampling Spock decided that he was hungrier than he had realized. As he ate he listened with interest to his friends' conversation. Much of what they said puzzled him, but that was only to be expected with both Kirk and McCoy drinking liberally of the doctor's Kentucky bourbon.

Then McCoy said, "I don't get it. All that time in Space, getting on each other's nerves…and what do we do when shore leave comes along? Spend it together. Most people have families."

"Other people, Bones," Kirk said wistfully. "Not us."

Spock looked at them and said nothing. Eventually the conversation lightened and moved on to other matters, but the words of his friends lingered in the back of his mind, returning to him after he had settled into his sleeping bag for the night.

 _Most people have families…other people…not us._ The words made Spock uneasy, as if in remaining silent he had not been entirely honest. For he had known what Kirk and McCoy meant when they said "family". He had seen the pain in their eyes that spoke of lost loves and ruined chances. Had they realized how much Spock saw and understood, they would have been surprised. Had they guessed at the true extent of Spock's relationship with Lauren, what might they have said? Liquor had a way of inspiring crude jests.

But soon Spock would have to tell them. Perhaps not directly, at first. There were other ways for a Vulcan to convey the fact that he had chosen a woman for his own. Ways that were discreet. Ways that might lessen the inevitable shockwaves of gossip that would reverberate through the entire crew. Ways that might lessen some of the difficulties Lauren was sure to encounter. He wanted, above all, to protect her.

And what of his daughter? T'Beth's parole had been transferred to Earth and even now she was on her way. When he met her at the spaceport, he might not like what he would find, but somehow, some way, he would deal with the teenager and perhaps even plant a seed or two of understanding.

Repressing a shiver, Spock peered into the darkness beyond the embers of the campfire. The rush of the Merced River mingled with his friends' snores and a gently sighing breeze. With each stirring of air the evergreens moved restlessly and the temperature seemed to drop. At night the forest reminded him of the damp Klingon woodlands. He could almost envision the stone house that had imprisoned him set deep among the trees, almost smell the goat-like graebons huddled in their drafty barn. And Torlath—

Spock put a halt to the thought. Through the skill of his healer and Lauren's tireless understanding, he had made real progress in this matter of Klingons. Not that he liked the aggressive race, even now. He doubted that he ever would. But one might find light even in a Klingon heart—a kind act, a caring gesture, a moment of simple decency that transcended all ethnic and racial barriers. Spock knew of such lights and such moments, although for a time it was as if he had forgotten. The healer had helped him put his mind back in order. Now, he could not think of his captivity without also thinking of a Klingon named Lanya—gentle Lanya, who saw that he was cold and gave him her cloak, who saw that he was hurt and tended his wounds, who saw that he was something more than an animal and treated him with dignity. Lanya, a granddaughter of Torlath.

Burrowing deeper into his sleeping bag, Spock gazed up at a starlit patch of sky. Someday, somewhere, he would come face to face with another Klingon. And he thought, _May the calm I feel now remain with me in that moment. May I prove worthy of the great trust so many have invested in me._

He closed his eyes. As he slept, a bright sliver of moon inched its way clear of the treetops.


End file.
